Chapter Text
Bahrain, February 2025 — Pre-Season Testing
The garage smells like warm carbon, oil, and coffee that’s been reheated one time too many.
It’s early—not the poetic kind of early that gets written about, but the practical kind. The kind where your body is awake because it has to be, not because it wants to be. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flat and unforgiving, bleaching the color out of everything except the McLaren orange, which somehow still manages to glow.
Lando stands half inside the garage, half in the pit lane, while one of the engineers explains brake component tolerances with the intensity of someone describing a life-or-death situation.
“…so the wear pattern we’re seeing on the left front—”
Lando nods. He listens. He always does.
He’s good at listening. It’s one of the things people don’t really talk about when they talk about him. They talk about reflexes. About raw pace. About talent that looks effortless until you realize how much effort it actually takes to make something look like that.
But listening? That’s quieter. Less visible.
Still, it’s how he survives this place.
Behind him, the car sits on its stands, stripped down and exposed in a way that always feels vaguely intimate. Orange bodywork gleams under the lights, pristine and hopeful in that way new machinery always is before the season has a chance to leave marks on it. Wires snake out from its body like veins mid-surgery, engineers hovering close, murmuring, adjusting, checking.
Somewhere down the pit lane, an engine fires up and dies again. The sound echoes off concrete and steel with that hollow, metallic thump that only exists in paddocks, tunnels, and the spaces where speed waits its turn.
Normal. Familiar.
Lando shifts his weight slightly, rolling his shoulders to ease a stiffness that never quite goes away anymore. Twenty-five isn’t old, but it’s not new either. Not in this sport. Not after years of carrying expectations that started when he still had braces and people talked about him like a promise instead of a contender.
This year is different.
He can feel it sitting in his chest, heavy and electric at the same time.
Last year had been the first real taste of it—the first time the question had shifted from can he win to when will he win. The first time he’d lined up on Sundays knowing that if things broke right—if he was perfect, if the team executed, if luck didn’t decide to be cruel—he could actually take the fight to the very end.
He remembers it in flashes.
Silver trophies under harsh lights. Late nights replaying laps in his head. The strange whiplash of standing on podiums one week and explaining “what went wrong” the next. The way people started saying championship contender like it was both a compliment and a warning.
He’d come close enough to see it clearly.
Close enough to want it badly.
Now the world expects it.
McLaren expects it.
He expects it.
And expectation is heavier than hope.
The engineer finishes his explanation. Lando nods once more. “Got it,” he says, voice steady, grounded. “Let me know if you want me to feel anything specific in the next run.”
“Will do,” the engineer replies, satisfied.
Lando turns slightly, letting his gaze drift down the pit lane.
That’s when the air changes.
It’s subtle at first. Not a sound, exactly—more like a texture shift. The rhythm of the place stutters. Conversations overlap where they usually don’t. Someone laughs too loudly. Someone else swears, irritated.
This isn’t the clipped urgency of engineers or the practiced calm of drivers. This is messy. Inefficient.
Lando glances up.
Down the pit lane, beyond Ferrari red and Mercedes silver, something is happening. Cameras—real ones, cinematic rigs with matte boxes and rails—are being hauled into place. A crane arm sweeps overhead like a mechanical bird. Someone yells reset! in a voice that expects obedience, not collaboration.
He squints, curious despite himself.
“What’s that?” he asks, nodding toward the commotion.
One of the mechanics follows his gaze. “Oh. Film crew.”
“For…?” Lando prompts.
“Big thing,” the mechanic says with a shrug. “Hollywood. Some Top Gun spin-off. They’ve been buzzing about it all week.”
Lando hums, noncommittal.
Hollywood in the paddock isn’t new. Cameras love racing almost as much as racing hates being slowed down by them. Usually, he tunes it out instinctively. Focus is currency. Distractions are expensive.
He’s about to look away—because that’s what he does, because testing matters, because this year matters—
When movement catches his eye.
Not noise. Not spectacle.
Movement.
Someone steps into the open space of the pit lane like they already know where they’re going.
She’s in racing gear.
Not costume racing gear—not the glossy, stiff, too-clean stuff that looks convincing on camera but wrong in real life. Not the kind that squeaks when you move or hangs incorrectly at the shoulders. This is real Nomex. Proper fireproof fabric, tailored with intention, softened by use. The elbows are creased. The knees show faint wear. The suit is unzipped halfway, fabric clinging where it’s meant to and loose where it needs to be.
Functional. Lived-in.
Her hair is pulled back messily—not styled, not aesthetic, just practical. Enough to keep it out of her face. No makeup announcing itself. No jewelry catching the light. No phone in her hand. No assistant hovering at her elbow whispering reminders.
She pauses just inside the lane, not blocking traffic, not lingering. Just long enough to orient herself.
Her eyes move.
Sharp. Efficient. Not hurried.
She isn’t gawking. She isn’t performing awe. She isn’t trying to look like she belongs.
She’s reading the room.
Lando feels it before he understands it: the way her attention moves across the space like she’s mentally mapping it. The walls. The garages. The clusters of people. The flow of bodies and machines. She tracks it all instinctively, the way drivers do when they step somewhere new—looking for exits, for safe lines, for where not to stand.
She doesn’t call for attention.
In fact, she does the opposite.
She walks close to the pit wall, shoulder angled slightly inward, like she’s grounding herself against it. Like she’s trying to pass unnoticed. Like she has a destination already decided and no interest in becoming a spectacle on the way there.
And yet—
Heads turn.
Mechanics glance up from laptops. Engineers pause mid-sentence. A cameraman lowers his rig a fraction, distracted despite himself. Someone laughs quietly, not because of anything funny, just because the rhythm of the place has shifted and their body doesn’t quite know why yet.
She can’t help it.
Some people carry attention whether they want to or not.
Lando doesn’t feel a rush of nerves.
No spike of adrenaline. No cinematic oh moment where everything else fades out and violins swell.
What he feels instead is stillness.
Like someone has turned the volume knob down half a click. Like the day has tilted its attention, just slightly, without announcing the shift.
He notices absurd details.
The way her boots hit the concrete—soft, controlled. The way her hands flex once at her sides, like she’s grounding herself in her body. The way she breathes, slow and even, as if she’s deliberately keeping her nervous system on a leash.
She walks with the easy confidence of someone used to being watched—but not defined by it.
There’s weight in her steps. Not heavy. Not cautious. Grounded. The kind of weight that comes from knowing exactly how fast you could move if you needed to, and choosing not to.
She stops at the McLaren pit wall.
Doesn’t even glance toward the garage.
Doesn’t look at the car. Doesn’t look at the engineers. Doesn’t look at him.
She faces outward, resting her forearms lightly on the railing like she’s waiting for someone to meet her there.
And Lando straightens without realizing he’s done it.
It’s instinctive. Subtle. The kind of adjustment his body makes before his brain catches up—shoulders squaring, spine aligning, attention sharpening like he’s just been called into a briefing.
He notices himself doing it and almost laughs.
Get a grip, he thinks.
Zak Brown, of course, clocks her immediately.
He steps forward with that familiar, expansive smile, arms opening like he’s greeting an old friend and a business opportunity at the same time.
“Look at you,” Zak says, voice carrying easily over the ambient noise. “You look nice in racing gear.”
She turns then, grin already forming like she saw it coming.
“Oh, don’t start,” she says, waving him off with practiced ease. “I’ve been in this since five a.m.”
“Still,” Zak insists, undeterred. “Suits you.”
She snorts softly. “Everything looks good before the caffeine wears off.”
Lando watches the exchange with quiet fascination.
She knows Zak.
Not in the we met once at a gala way. Not in the we exchange polite emails through assistants way. This is familiarity. Comfort. The kind that allows teasing without calculation, deflection without offense.
Zak gestures vaguely at the pit lane. “How’s the circus treating you?”
She shrugs lightly. “Loud. Efficient. Smells exactly like I hoped it would.”
He laughs. “That’s high praise.”
“It is,” she agrees.
Before Zak can reply, a blur of motion barrels straight into her legs.
A dog.
Not just any dog—this one is clearly well-trained, well-groomed, the kind that knows commands in three languages and probably has her own passport. Her coat gleams like it’s been brushed with intention. Her posture, when she’s standing still, suggests discipline. Focus. Excellence.
And yet—
She chooses chaos.
Affection-fueled, boundary-obliterating chaos.
The moment she spots Louise, all decorum evaporates. The sit-stay-heel programming short-circuits, replaced by a single, overwhelming directive: must love now.
She launches herself forward with the confidence of a creature who has never once been told no and has every reason to believe gravity is optional.
“Akira—hey—hey!” Louise laughs, bending automatically, arms coming up just in time as Akira’s front paws collide with her shoulders. “You cannot just attack people like this.”
Akira responds by wagging harder.
Her tail becomes a weapon of mass distraction, sweeping through the air with dangerous enthusiasm, thumping against Louise’s hip, her thigh, the pit wall behind her. Akira’s entire body vibrates with joy. She tries—earnestly, disastrously—to climb Louise like she’s the summit of Everest and she’s just been told the view is incredible.
Louise braces, feet widening slightly, knees bending on instinct. She’s strong enough to absorb Akira’s weight, practiced enough to redirect it.
“This is not consent,” Louise tells her sternly, though her voice is smiling. “This is an ambush.”
Akira pants happily, tongue lolling, eyes bright with victory. She presses her forehead into Louise’s collarbone like she’s won something important.
Someone nearby laughs.
Cameras shift. A few heads turn.
Lando, standing a few meters away inside the McLaren garage, feels his mouth curve upward despite himself.
He doesn’t mean to smile. It just… happens.
There’s something immediately disarming about the scene. About how Louise doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t perform delight for the attention that’s absolutely, definitely being directed at her now. She doesn’t look around to see who’s watching. She doesn’t call for help. She just catches the dog and laughs, full and unfiltered, like this exact moment has happened a hundred times before and will happen a hundred times again.
Her hands slide easily to Akira’s shoulders, fingers finding familiar pressure points, grounding her. She murmurs something too quiet to hear, forehead dipping briefly to touch Akira’s.
The dog exhales, content.
Lando watches, something quiet loosening in his chest.
He’s always wanted a dog.
He’s thought about it more than he lets on—late at night, scrolling mindlessly, when his apartment feels too quiet and his brain won’t shut up. He’s imagined coming home after a long race weekend to something alive and uncomplicated. Something that doesn’t care about points standings or tire degradation or whether he maximized sector two.
A dog that would just be happy he’s there.
But dogs don’t fit neatly into calendars that span continents. They don’t understand jet lag or hotel rooms or the concept of being gone for weeks at a time. So he’s always pushed the thought away. Practicality over want. Responsibility deferred.
Still—
Someone behind him snorts softly.
“That’s Louise,” a mechanic says, not looking up from the tablet balanced on his knee. “You know—the Louise. Louise Levine”
Lando glances sideways. “The Louise?”
The mechanic finally looks up, eyebrows lifting in mild disbelief. “Yeah. That Louise. Big celebrity. Been everywhere the last few years. Apparently she’s playing a driver in the film.”
He grins. “Method, I guess.”
Lando turns back toward her.
He knows the name.
Of course he does.
He’s seen it on magazine covers at airports, her face larger than life, styled to perfection. He’s seen the red carpet photos, the dramatic gowns, the headlines that oscillate wildly between reverent and invasive. He’s seen her reduced to aesthetics, to narratives, to clickbait.
That person does not look like the one in front of him.
This Louise has dog hair clinging stubbornly to her fireproof suit. Her sleeves are tied around her waist with efficient precision, knot secure, ends tucked so they won’t flap. Her hair is pulled back messily, strands escaping without apology. Her cheeks are flushed—not from makeup, but from laughter and exertion.
She’s crouched now, murmuring to Akira, voice low and affectionate. When she stands again, she brushes dog hair off her suit with practiced ease, like this is a familiar inconvenience rather than an embarrassment.
She doesn’t check to see who noticed.
She doesn’t scan for cameras.
She just resumes her conversation with Zak Brown like the interruption was part of the plan all along.
Louise.
The name settles somewhere in Lando’s chest—unremarkable and memorable all at once. Solid. Human.
Akira circles Louise’s legs, satisfied, then flops down at her feet like she’s claimed the territory.
“Traitor,” Louise tells her fondly.
Akira yawns, unapologetic.
Zak gestures down the pit lane. “You want to see the garages up close?”
Louise hesitates for half a second—not out of nerves, Lando realizes, but consideration. Like she’s weighing whether she wants to take up the space being offered.
“Only if I’m not in the way,” she says.
Zak waves her concern off. “You’ll be fine. They’ve all seen worse.”
She hums, unconvinced, but follows anyway.
As she walks past the McLaren garage, closer now, Lando becomes aware of his own posture shifting again—how he straightens slightly, how his attention narrows despite his best efforts.
She doesn’t look at him.
Not pointedly. Not deliberately.
Just… not at all.
Her gaze skims the space with quiet curiosity. She takes in the car with interest that feels informed, not superficial. Her eyes linger on the exposed internals, the wires and cooling ducts, the unglamorous things that don’t photograph well but matter immensely.
She asks questions—quiet ones, directed at Zak, at a passing engineer. About brake temperatures. About cooling efficiency. About how much of the setup comes from simulation now versus driver feedback.
Lando’s eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly.
Those aren’t the questions of someone playing dress-up.
Those are the questions of someone who has done the homework—and then gone further.
Zak answers easily, warming to it. “You really did your research.”
Louise shrugs. “I don’t like pretending. It feels disrespectful.”
“To the sport?”
“To the people who live in it,” she corrects.
That lands.
Lando pretends to focus on the data scrolling across the monitor in front of him, but his attention keeps slipping sideways.
He notices the way she listens—chin slightly dipped, eyes steady, body angled toward the speaker. He notices how she nods at the right moments, how she doesn’t interrupt unless it’s to clarify something specific.
She’s present.
That’s rarer than it should be.
Akira pads along beside her, occasionally stopping to sniff a tire or a toolbox like she’s conducting her own inspection.
“Alright,” Zak says eventually, clapping his hands again. “I’ll let you get back to work. Try not to steal anything.”
Louise laughs. “No promises.”
She turns to go, Akira trotting faithfully at her side.
And then she’s gone—absorbed by the controlled chaos of the pit lane, by cameras and crew and purpose.
The noise returns to its normal pitch. The rhythm resets.
A mechanic taps Lando’s shoulder. “You’re up in five.”
“Yeah,” Lando says, blinking once. “Got it.”
He pulls his helmet on, the familiar weight settling him back into himself.
Focus. Margins. This year matters.
Still—
As he walks toward the car, a small, inconvenient truth lingers.
Of all the things he expected to see during pre-season testing—
It wasn’t a dog.
And it definitely wasn’t the quiet certainty that the woman holding her leash didn’t need to be impressive to be unforgettable.
The following day, the pit lane feels different again.
Not louder. Not quieter.
Settled.
The kind of calm that comes after everyone has learned where they’re meant to stand, how close they can be to the cars without being in the way, which moments are worth rushing and which ones will wait. Pre-season testing has its own rhythm—less spectacle than a race weekend, more intention. The machinery hums rather than shouts. Conversations happen in half-voices. Everyone is watching something, even when they pretend not to be.
The filming unit has adapted overnight. The cranes are still there, the cameras still rolling, but they move with less friction now, as if the paddock has absorbed them into its bloodstream. They’ve learned the angles. Learned the silences.
Near the far end of the lane, away from the garages, a neat row of electric scooters sits parked just outside frame—sleek, matte, unassuming. They don’t demand attention. They’re just… there.
Adam Norris walks through the filming area with the ease of someone who doesn’t need permission.
His badge opens doors before he reaches them. His presence doesn’t disrupt; it integrates. A few quiet nods, a handshake here, a brief word there. His company’s logo appears sparingly across the set—battery units tucked neatly behind barriers, charging stations humming softly, the scooters waiting patiently like well-trained animals.
Adam stops when he notices Louise.
She’s standing beside one of the scooters, hands resting lightly on the handlebars, head tilted in concentration. She isn’t performing curiosity for the cameras. Her attention is precise, almost technical.
“So this is yours?” she asks, tapping the frame with one knuckle.
“Guilty,” Adam says, smiling. “One of ours, anyway.”
She looks up at him, eyes bright—not dazzled, just genuinely interested. “They’re quieter than I expected.”
“That’s the point,” he replies. “Less noise. Less mess.”
She nods, absorbing that. “I like things that don’t announce themselves.”
Adam gestures toward the scooter. “Want to try it?”
Her face changes instantly—no polish, no calculation. Just delight.
“Can I?” she asks, already stepping closer.
“Of course,” Adam says. “I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”
He explains the basics, and Louise listens like it matters. She doesn’t nod absentmindedly. She asks questions—practical ones, thoughtful ones.
“What’s the torque like on uneven ground?”
“Does it coast if the battery drops suddenly?”
“How forgiving is the braking?”
Adam chuckles. “You’re thorough.”
“I’ve learned surprises are rarely fun,” she replies.
She steps onto the scooter carefully, adjusts her stance, mirrors his instructions with quick precision. When she takes off, it’s cautious at first—measured speed, controlled posture.
Then she relaxes.
The scooter glides smoothly beneath her. She laughs when she wobbles slightly, catching herself easily, the sound light and unfiltered as it drifts across the open space.
She loops back, slowing to a stop beside him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
“Okay,” she says, breathless. “That is fun.”
Adam beams. “Told you.”
She grins, pushing a stray strand of hair back from her face. “You might’ve just ruined walking for me.”
“Occupational hazard,” he says.
They stand there for a moment, watching the pit lane move around them—cars rolling in and out, engineers bent over laptops, the quiet choreography of preparation unfolding uninterrupted.
“These would be good for places like this,” Louise says thoughtfully. “Efficient. Clean. Less chaos.”
Adam nods. “That’s the idea.”
She hums. “I appreciate solutions that don’t feel like statements.”
He studies her for a second, then smiles. “You’d be surprised how rare that sentiment is.”
“Story of my life,” she replies lightly.
Adam checks his watch. “I should let you get back to work.”
She hands the scooter back reluctantly. “Thanks for letting me try it.”
“Anytime,” he says. “If you ever want another go.”
She smiles, sincere. “I might take you up on that.”
Adam walks away, folding seamlessly back into the flow of the paddock, leaving Louise alone with the faint echo of her laughter and the quiet hum of the scooters.
She lingers for a moment longer, then turns toward the filming area, expression settling back into something focused, grounded.
The pit lane carries on.
Somewhere else, engines fire. Somewhere else, a driver climbs into a car, unaware that a small, unremarkable interaction just took place—one that didn’t need witnesses to matter.
The day continues.
And quietly, meaning accumulates anyway.
Later—when the sun has dipped just enough to soften the edges of the paddock, when testing is winding down and the day exhales—the circuit feels looser.
Not lazy. Just… human.
The intensity has drained out in stages. Cars have been rolled back into garages, data still pouring off them in invisible rivers, engineers already arguing about numbers that will matter later. Helmets sit abandoned on worktops. Gloves are tucked into back pockets. Someone laughs too loudly near the far end of the lane, the sound bouncing off concrete without urgency.
Lando walks toward the motorhome with his hands shoved into the pockets of his McLaren jacket, phone buzzing intermittently with messages he’ll answer later. He’s tired in that familiar way—mentally wired, physically spent, the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t beg for sleep so much as it demands stillness.
Testing always does this to him.
It gives you just enough to believe. Just enough to doubt. Just enough to carry around in your chest like unfinished business.
He’s halfway through mentally replaying a long run—corner entry, rear stability, a note to ask about front-end feel—when movement at the edge of the paddock catches his eye.
A scooter.
Gliding. Smooth. Almost lazy.
He slows without realizing he’s done it.
It’s her.
Louise.
She’s no longer in racing gear. The suit is gone, replaced by jeans and a loose white shirt that moves with the breeze. Her hair is down now, falling around her shoulders in a way that looks less deliberate, more honest. Sunglasses rest on top of her head, forgotten. Her posture is easy—knees soft, weight centered, like balance is second nature.
She looks like someone at the end of a good day.
She doesn’t see him.
He doesn’t call out.
Not because he’s shy. Not because he’s intimidated.
Because the moment doesn’t ask for interruption.
She rides past clusters of team members without drawing attention, weaving naturally through the gaps, like she understands paddocks the way drivers do—where to be invisible, where to exist without friction. Someone says something to her offhand. She laughs, the sound unguarded and light, carried just far enough that it reaches him before dissolving into the hum of generators and voices.
Lando stops walking.
Just stands there, helmet bag slung over his shoulder, watching her glide toward the far end of the lane. She turns a corner and disappears from view, laughter trailing faintly behind her like exhaust.
For a second—just one—he feels something tug.
Not longing.
Not regret.
Recognition, maybe.
He exhales, slow, and resumes walking.
Pre-season testing ends the way it always does.
Quietly.
With no ceremony.
The garages empty in stages. Equipment is packed away with practiced efficiency. Conversations taper off into promises to revisit things later. The cars are loaded, sealed, reduced once again to numbers and logistics and future tense.
Lando boards his flight out like he always does—hood up, headphones on, mind already shifting forward. Bahrain. The season. The year that’s about to decide things people have been whispering about for months.
The world has expectations now. He feels them everywhere—in interviews, in the way engineers speak more carefully, in the way people say this could be the year like it’s both a gift and a threat.
He welcomes it.
Mostly.
He tells himself Bahrain was just testing.
Just a film crew passing through.
Just an actress in a racing suit who knew how to stand in a pit lane without trying to own it.
Nothing worth storing
Weeks pass.
The season begins to take shape.
Sometimes, his brain drifts.
To a laugh that didn’t belong to the paddock.
But somehow fit there anyway.
It doesn’t distract him.
It’s quieter than that.
More like a marker.
A small mental flag planted somewhere off to the side of the road.
Something was here.
Unannounced.
Unclaimed.
And real.